


Dress me in Winter White

by Hyoushin



Series: blue winter roses [12]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Castle Black, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is a ranger, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Modern Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 03:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19033423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: Secrets. Unspoken truths. Isolation. A past that haunts.Jon, together with Arya, figure out that moving on was an option all along. But they need to find each other and accede to open up to let themselves see that first.





	Dress me in Winter White

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Paint my eyes in shades of blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2254905) by [LadyBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBee/pseuds/LadyBee). 



> Important Note:  
> I must thank Lady Bee for allowing me to remix her story: Paint my eyes in shades of blue. Thank you for being so kind.  
> Also, huge thanks to my fellow Jonrya writers, Lady S, Muse, Fostofina, Sapphire, Hunter, all of you, who have listened to me rant about this and given me great advice and support. This is truly an awesome community and I feel lucky to be a part of it.
> 
> And last but not least, thank you, dear reader, for taking the time to read this little thing.

**Dress me in Winter White  
(re: Paint my eyes in shades of blue) **

####  **1.1**

A knock on his door, late at night, and Jon knew who it was. On the threshold, there stood a recurrent ghost, coming over to haunt his dreams. They faced each other; Arya staring him down with defiance but making no move to slip into his home until she was given permission. Jon sighed his defeat and let her pass.

Arya wouldn’t intrude. She was respectful of other people’s spaces. He liked that about her. Jon saw her plop down on his couch, peeling her sweater off her and setting it aside. In the soft, yellow light of a table lamp, she revealed bruises, cuts, and several welts. Tonight, her skin did the talking, dispensing with eloquence a preliminary explanation. But he made his displeasure more than evident through the frown deepening on his face.

Jon went to the kitchen, pulled a cupboard open and dragged a first-aid kit. They were stuck in this routine of sorts. It started a year ago, Jon mused. Arya a senior in the House of Black and White Academy. Jon traced the break in her behavior to the accident, a girl adrift and angry ever since. A vengeful spirit still grieving and lamenting. More dead than alive come winter.

In silence, Jon dipped cotton in alcohol and dabbed her skin, the surface uneven with mottles of blue, black, and red. Pain didn’t make her flinch anymore, her long hair a veil shading the absence of vitality. In moments like these, he was at a lost on what to do even if he wasn’t a stranger to her actions. He was the youngest in his family. His step-siblings being, for the most part, the problem children; rebellious and problematic from nearly every angle.

Jon decided he could be the least troublesome one. He decided he would be the well-behaved one. Jon would be the considerate, kind, and diligent son. Thank the old gods, for the Targaryens were blessed with one good child. His father’s genteel genes shining through him, according to his side of the family. Growing up, unwanted comments hung over him for looking like a carbon copy of his mother.

His mother had died, but he had to be perfect. No stepping out of line. Jon was just made Commander of his unit. He was to be a spotless soldier. No cracks in the mirror. Every little thing in his life clean-cut and straight. _No exceptions._

Arya whimpered when pincers dug in to pluck out a sliver of glass in her arm. Jon couldn’t say he didn’t entirely understand. Arya was in pain. But the real magnitude of her pain eluded him since he hadn’t ever had something he truly wanted ripped away from him. His duty had been thrust upon him, there had been no other choice in the matter.

Jon was grasping for a flash of inspiration, for something he could give or do that would propel her forward. Nothing would strike him yet, so, in the meantime, Jon wrapped her in white gauze.

“Who was it with this time?”

She mumbled, “An asshole called Clegane.”

“Did you win?”

She grinned, giving him a glimpse of blood red teeth. “Should’ve seen ‘im”

Against his better judgment, he snorted. He was awful at this, going about this the wrong way, probably.

“You can’t keep doing this.” It was hard to miss the stiffening of her shoulders. The shy glimmer in her eyes was killed with just one sentence.

“Just tell me I can’t keep coming over and I’ll stop.” Arya spat, defensive and bristling like an offended cat in less than a second. She wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.

“I didn’t say that.” Jon raked his eyes over her and forced himself to say, “Sometimes, I fear I’ll receive a call that’ll kindly inform me you won’t be coming over anymore. For good.”

Arya raised her head, fixing him in place with wide, glassy eyes. “Don’t do that. Not you too. Don’t make me feel like shit.”

If Jon held his tongue, she would sleep on his couch or share his bed, as they used to do when little, and in the morning, her wounded feet would lead her back out into the hostile pits of her world. And then, the cycle would repeat itself. She would knock and he would let her in. He would dunk her in antiseptic, dress her in white, and hope for the best. Force and pressure would backlash, but the combination of gentleness and support was not being as effective as he had thought it’d be.

Jon wasn’t sure of how to proceed. Everything else failed, the next step was often wrong, weariness tempted him to let go, while love persuaded him to hold on.

“Arya. If anything were to happen to you—,” Jon paused, contemplating the possibility for one heart-stopping moment and there it was: rushing through his mind, the lightning of understanding that tore him apart. “I’d be in a similar place as you are right now.”

Arya tried to counter but for once, she was left with no words. Sliding off the couch, she landed on her knees, arms coiling about his neck. His shoulder was wet before long and he only pulled her closer. The odor of cheap liquor would attach itself to him and his clothes and his haunted home, but he pulled her even closer.

Rob would die to know where she was. Even in her haughtiness, Jon bet Sansa missed her. Bran and Rickon, they asked after her all the time. Uncle Ned and Aunt Catelyn, they’d love to see her again. Jon whispered these things into her ear, wishing it would reach her, maybe it would clear some of the debris still falling inside.

She cried harder. Between hiccups, she said, “I wanted to dance. The only thing I wanted. To dance. I gave up everything for this.” Fury rained on her, hitting her thighs like resentful fists, “stupid, stupid, stupid. They’ll never respond to me how I want them to.”

“I was damn good, _damn good_ ,” a muted, frustrated growl escaped her throat.

Jon wondered if she had opened up before like this, if anyone else in the family had tried to listen, simply to listen instead of condemning. Perhaps she thought herself weak, for weeping this much over dead dreams.

Her uncaged sorrow persisted through the night, sobs quaking her body, until, “sorry,” she said, in a tiny voice, old rage and impotence having wrung the fight out of her.

Jon didn’t dare to utter a thing. They stayed like that, limbs intertwined as he listened carefully to the wet shudder of her breaths.

They were aglow under the pale daylight seeping in through the windows, blankets and pillows around them as they laid awake. A first-aid kit popped open, its contents spread out by their feet beside empty mugs and plates and band-aid wrappers.

He felt Arya shift beside him. So he did something he hadn’t had the courage to do before. A hand darted out to stop her. His fingers firm on her wrist. “Stay.”

Arya startled, turning to glance at him. “You mean that?”

“I don’t bother with things I don’t mean. Stay, here, every day.”

“No offense, but I hate your couch and you have the one bed.” Cheeky brat. Lovely, cheeky, strong brat who miraculously hadn't needed stitches. At least she got better at minimizing injuries.

 _Just one exception._ Because what was the point of keeping on going without this one exception making it worthwhile.

Jon shrugged. “We can always share.”

Her smile was shaky around the seams, unsure and awkward, but it had, for the first time in a long while, something real.

He followed her to the bathroom. She divested herself of her torn, bloody clothes. It was a bit of an odd arrangement, whatever it was they had. They had become experts on recognizing cues and rendering sound to voiceless requests. Jon took a towel from the sink cabinet, wet it under the spray of the tap, and kneeled.

Jon rubbed gentle soap into her skin, wiped dirt and dried blood. He placed delicate strokes around her ankles, where scars crept up like vines, faint and thin and permanent. A visible representation of the hurts inside of her, a chasm not yet to be crossed, and Jon wasn't blind to it. It was also there in the gauntness of her cheeks, over the ridge of the ribs he could feel beneath the softness of a towel.

He couldn't make her promise she wouldn't do it again. But maybe, he could convince her to redirect her drive towards something else that would break her less.

A man could try. Her eyes were asking him to.

Her body was cinched with a fresh towel, and he picked her up, ignoring her slurred protests of _you don't have to do this Jon. This is stupid._ He did it anyway. Carried her to his bed, deposited her on his sheets, watched her curl up into herself as he sat down, tired. Caring too much and too hard could be exhausting.

A hand ghosted over her hair, over too defined shoulder blades, down a spine hidden by soft white that he knew it felt sharp enough to cut.

The sun went down but Jon remained, and beside him, her resting form.

Nightfall, and Jon was setting pancakes one after another in front of Arya. She bathed them in syrup and butter, smirking at his grimace of disgust.

“You do that on purpose.” Jon shook his head, setting down to eat his own stack. It had been almost scarily easy to reconnect, the recurrence of a battered body with gaping injuries swaying on his doorstep notwithstanding.

Jon would’ve preferred better circumstances, but this was what he got. Distance, and the exigencies of their disciplines, had drifted them apart after he moved for the Order and Arya for the Academy. Upon the news of the accident and her expected return to Winterfell, Jon asked for an extended leave. He didn’t want to think where she would’ve been, or what he would’ve done, had it not been approved.

“I enjoy it and it bugs you. Kill two birds with one stone and all that.” She continued to stab her food and devour it as if she hadn’t had a meal in a decade, every bite big and exaggerated.

In the past, comfort food had made her amenable to suggestions. It was always worth an attempt. From his pocket, he fished out a folded up flyer. With the subtlety of an elephant, he pushed it towards her line of sight. He reigned in the burst of nerves behind his gamble.

Arya narrowed her eyes. A good amount of suspicion etched in her features. She finished chewing, swallowed, and took a gulp of water before directing her attention to the new object on the table. “Do I have to?”

Jon refused to budge. “Consider it.”

Arya seemed to steel herself as she lowered her fork and knife. She was slow, as if trying to postpone what was next as much as was feasible. This could turn into a confrontation, but only if she catalogued it as an obligation.

She picked up the paper and unfolded it with her fingertips. She scanned it once, then went through it again. Skepticism and irony saturated her tone, “Really, Jon? Recruitment announcement.”  Sardonicism grew to dominate her expression. “Are you serious?”

Jon trudged onward. “Why not?” It could be a mistake or it could be what would take her somewhere new. He would venture out into the wild for them both. “The Order’s in need of Rangers. Rangers are, essentially, exceptional fighters and survivalists. You seem to fit the bill.”

Arya looked astounded. “I’ve tried all sorts of different stuff before and it hasn’t….” _been enough, been fulfilling._ Jon wasn’t able to parse through every thing she left unsaid, but this he could intuit correctly without a doubt.

Jon flipped his knife as if it were a coin, caught it by its edge; the motion briefly diverting Arya. “Maybe it’ll work out, or it won’t. Who knows. You wouldn’t be losing anything, I don’t think.”

Indecision was writ in the silence between them. Before she ran off, falling prey to apprehension, frightened by a new beginning, by unknown compromise, by the prospect of pouring effort into another challenge, Jon hurried and stalled. “A Ranger goes out and explores the world. If they’re good, they can even get themselves a familiar. They learn to use a variety of weapons and may move in established parties and units or independently, depending on the mission.”

Mild amusement flared in her. “You,” she began, “are trying too hard to sell this idea. I know what you’re doing.”

Jon stomped the urge to wince. “Underhanded tactics aren’t my forte. I wasn’t trying to be sneaky. It is just an option. If it doesn’t work for you, you drop out and that’s that.”

Arya looked away, hesitation lurking around the corner.

“Arya,” Jon called. She put her focus back on him immediately. “You don’t have to make a decision right now. But I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest. Yes or no.”

She would bolt at any sign of danger. Jon braved the risk, even though he knew the answer to his question. “Do you trust me?”

Arya was surprised into an instinctive, “Yes!” She dropped her guard and repeated her affirmation. “Yes, more than anyone else.”

She must have realized she needed the reminder. “Sneaky bastard.”

Jon stifled a laugh. “Guilty as charged.” Then, “Will you think on it?”

Her decision pulsed within the space of his next exhale.

“I won’t.”

Arya sighed deeply. Closed her eyes, half in resignation, half in relief. “What’s there to think? I’ll try it.”

Jon breathed out.

####  **1.2**

Arya, once she made her mind, there was no stopping her. No method to restrain or contain her. It was all or nothing, no in-betweens or maybes. She gave it her all or she would have nothing to do with it; she could be extreme in her decisiveness, making each failure an utter devastation.

And so, Jon expected the same principle would apply to this too. “Are you sure you don’t want to drop by? It’s on the way.” The road towards the Wall was long, tiresome, and the hours could stretch indefinitely for someone who had a lot to detangle in their mind.

Arya drew back her shoulders. “No. I’m fine.” She held an air of resoluteness. “I don’t want to second-guess myself,” she disclosed, quietly. It was rare, the sight of her insecurity and uncertainty bubbling on the surface.

Jon flashed her a quick glance. The weeks she spent in his apartment did her good. Her face had mostly cleared, tints of painful colors still in place for the ones who would look twice, or more than twice and possibly inquire like Uncle Ned. It was easy to picture the silent concern in the steadiness of his bearing. How he would keep his care to himself to let it drip over, slow but sure, in the right dosage.

All his texts simply said, _take care of her please; how is she today?; she doesn’t eat much when she’s sad._ When Arya could muster enough strength to look back without bruising herself in the process, he would reforward them to her.

“I can’t face them, right now.” Arya looked out the window, snow-covered scenery fleeting by. “I don’t want to see his disappointment.”

“He wouldn’t blame you for what happened to you.” The real reason was underneath, he knew. Her refusal to return home was more about the severe disappointment she leveled at herself.

“Have you spoken to him?” Arya asked, picking up her phone to twirl it.

“I have. He asks about you. Constantly.” Jon took a turn and refrained from visibly trying to gauge her reaction, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“What have you told him?” She worried her bottom lip, a hand clasped around the rose pendant of her necklace. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw a careful thumb caressing the small, blue gem at its center. The necklace had been his mother’s. Jon remembered gifting it to her before leaving Winterfell the first time. The silver gleamed, clean and polished.

“The essentials. You taking the black,” _assuring him I’ll be there for you, watching over you,_ “that sort of thing.”

“You're closer to them now than I am.”

Jon shrugged. “Not really, they just want to reach you somehow.”

She huffed, slumping further into the car seat, looking frustrated. “Alright, I'll talk to them. Not now. Soon.”

“I didn't say anything.”

Arya rolled her eyes, an exasperated little smile across her face. “Jon, thanks.”

“What for?”

“What you do for me. Don't think it goes over my head or that I don't appreciate it.” She took a deep breath. “I simply showed up one night and you just took me in and patched me up, no questions asked.”

Arya had disappeared after her return to Winterfell. She fully recovered, physically, but a day soon came where her room was found empty, leaving no trace. Everyone had tried to locate her, including Jon. But he had the feeling she would appear when she wanted to. And she did, a week later. On the other side of his door, beaten black and blue.

It was a last minute consideration, the ranger recruitment flyer. An alternative Jon presented to her, presuming she wanted to find a way to get far away from everything.

It had worked for him, years ago.  
  
The Wall had been a escape. Then the wild, within the ice and the snow and all its beasts, became his home. An old sensation arose _, of dry, cold stone under his feet and it wafted up to his nose, the scent of blue winter roses._ He shook his head, cleared his thoughts.

Jon hoped the Wall would be, if not her home, her shelter.

Several hours later, they neared the gates, and his reason for coming back here never got confined to a corner of his mind.

Somehow, it was ever-present, a reminder of how he wound up here. His father, and his father's family, had expected him to be a southron knight. A prosperous career had awaited in King’s Landing. But Lyanna Stark died in the frozen wilds of the North and Jon followed her. A single act of protest that estranged him from them, his siblings. It was the price he had to pay, for the one thing he did for himself.

He was asked for his identification. Arya’s fidgeting didn’t escape him as he talked to Edd. “Yes, I’m back already. Stop making such a fuss about it.”

“Well, why not? I see you here 24/7, but then I heard you were taking a leave, it was almost like a christmas miracle,” Edd said, scanning his ID. “Reckoned you finally came to your senses but you didn’t, clearly, since you’re here so soon to freeze your arse.”

Jon chuckled. “You forget, a frozen arse has its charm.”

Edd snorted. “Of course you’d say that. Disgusting heartbreaker, you.” He returned Jon’s ID, worked his computer, and signaled to the sentry ahead he was done. “Bugger off then, spare me this damn chill. Welcome back, Lord Snow.”

“Thank you, Edd. Good to see you too. Your cheerfulness warms my little cold heart.”

Edd was tickled by his remark, the exchange of private jokes making his perpetual cloud of moroseness lift for a moment. But only for a moment. He saluted and, shivering all over, slammed his window shut.

“Lord Snow?” Arya asked, amused.

 _Here it comes._ “A nickname of sorts some of the brothers in my unit spread around as a joke while we were trainees. It stuck.” His family, his last name, his entire descent wasn’t something it could have been realistically hidden. Jon was born of two old, prominent lineages. Once it came out, he had to stand against an environment where wrong assumptions were initially made, brewing distance, or derisiveness in some cases, in the interactions with his fellow trainees.

Arya frowned. “So it’s meant to mock you? That’s not the sense I got from ID bloke.”

Jon laughed. “That’s Edd and if you didn’t notice, he’s a bundle of joy.” They were let in, went through two more checkpoints, and rode up to Castle Black. “It started like that, yes, but in time, people took it kind of seriously, some even thought that was my name, so the meaning changed and I stopped minding it.”

“Good thing you stopped minding it then.” Arya said, a smile fighting to break out.  

Jon had a bad feeling.

With demanding pompousness, she made a sweeping gesture and announced, “Lead me to your icy abode, Lord Snow!”

His bad feelings were generally justified.

But at least, her fingers halted their incessant tapping against her knee.

Stepping off the car came with a touch of liberation. A blast of cold hit his face, ran through his hair, sneaked into the folds of his coat. He had missed it. It was a popular opinion among rangers that this place was dreary, heartless, a monotone limbo for the damned, a last resort for those with any kind of sentence.

But since he had first come here, he sought to see the Wall, the snowy lands and the haunted forest beyond it, with different eyes. The place itself transmitted to him a peculiar feeling. It was hard to explain, so it was something he hadn’t shared with anyone else. But privately, he perceived it to be almost like a nostalgic exhilaration distilled from a sense of belonging.

Was this what his mother had felt? Was this the allure which would draw her back time and again to the North? _It’s magical,_ she would confide, both lying down on his bed, gazing up at the glowing stars glued to the ceiling of his room. _I’ll take you there someday and you’ll see, Jon, you’’ll see what I mean,_ her arms tight around him, her breath warm atop his head. _I promise you, Jon._

_I promise._

“I’m here now,” a near soundless whisper mixing into the pale mist.

“Jon?”

He blinked and startled.

“Everything okay? You were staring off into space.”

Jon scrambled for an answer. “Yeah, sorry, I was just, thinking.” He lifted his arms as if to encompass the fortress they were surrounded by on all sides, and said, “Anyway, this is Fort Castle Black, colloquially known as the Wall. From here we get to Registration. Confirmation on your inscription comes first, but since the recruitment season ended a few days ago, let me make some calls.”

Arya raised her eyebrows, pushed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, looking a bit uncertain. “Are you gonna pull some strings for this?”

A self-satisfied smirk flitted across his face. “I, sort of, already did. I just want to confirm it’s Sam who’ll be handling your file, not Grenn. Grenn makes Registration a pain to go through. I want to speed things up a bit.”

“Will you be using your influence for...other things?” Arya looked down, uncomfortable.

“No! No.” Jon was quick to reassure. “Let me get this straight. Actual training is on you. You get assigned to a unit, a bunk, and a uniform and you’re on your own. I can’t meddle even if I wanted to, got it? Getting you in, that’s all I can do. If you want to stay, you have to pass Basics.”

“Okay. I will.” Arya nodded. A force of nature, her newfound resolve to do her best and go into ranging all in.

“Alright.” Jon procured his phone from the inside of his coat and rang Sam.

“Jon, hello!” Sam’s voice crackled through. “Sorry, Eastwatch’s crap signal. Coming back in a few days.”

“Hey, Sam.” Jon greeted. “I’ve just arrived with Arya.”

“Oh! That! Yes! Well, just confirm her inscription, I’ve got it handled. Gilly will be there. You can get me Arya’s papers, you know, later on, no worries.”

“Thanks, Sam. You’re―a great friend.” He said, quite embarrassed. Arya’s inscription was a rush job he’d entrusted to his best friend.

But Sam, with his perceptive self, understood. “Jon, we’re friends, we’re brothers, we help each other. You’d do the same. I know this is important.”  
  
“I’m really thankful for your help. I’ll get the papers ready. See you, Sam.”

Jon hung up and told Arya they were set. She was practically in.

Arya leaned against the hood of the car. She stared at him, rouge on her cheeks, wisps of hair falling onto her face. Uncle Ned would sometimes observe offhandedly, how much Arya resembled his sister Lyanna. He had been little more than a kid when she went away, but he thought he could recognize some of her in Arya. Pieces of her mother, perhaps in her hair, the gray of her eyes, her inherent kindness and easy acceptance.

This was still Arya, though, and his mother, his mother was appearing too often in his mind lately.

Jon gazed up at the dark, high walls of Castle Black behind them, around them, encasing them together.

  
Perhaps Lyanna’s soul could be in the radiance one was lavished on after a thunderstorm.

####  **1.3**

Jon quietly slid the door to the right and he wasn’t surprised by this scene at all: Arya in the infirmary after a month or so of training, body covered by bandages―snow-white clasped around her head, arms, and hands. He also wasn’t surprised by catching Brienne in a chair, making Arya company and engaging in what seemed to be small talk. Arya had that about her, made people care fast and inevitably.

Jon watched them, picking up some of the conversation. 

“She was one of the best 1st class rangers in the Night’s Watch history, yes.” Brienne said with pride. But her matter of fact tone changed a little, took on a sad tinge. “I was merely a trainee when she disappeared. I admired her deeply.”

Jon didn’t need the full context to figure out who they were talking about. Brienne had mentioned to him her admiration towards his mother once before.

Brienne happened to raise her head, locking her eyes with his. She immediately clammed up, unsettled by his sudden presence. She jerked to her feet and saluted sharply. “Commander.” Even though they were of the same rank, she refused to let go of formalities.

“Commander Tarth.”

“I’ll be taking my leave. Rest up, Stark. I’ll see you on Monday. No more overtraining, is that understood?”

Arya assented. “Understood, Commander.”  

Brienne sent a courteous nod to him as she passed by him and exited the room, sliding the door shut.

“Arya.” He couldn’t help the admonishment filtering into the sound of her name.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, and for an instant, an image of her as a little girl with scraped knees and tangled hair flitted before his eyes.

Jon detected the weight of her mistakes pressing down on her. He decided not to add to it. Instead, Jon placed Brienne’s vacated chair by her bed and sank into it. “What’s wrong?”

“Sometimes I can’t help it.” Arya stared down at her bandaged hands, took a while before speaking again. “It’s frustrating, to start anew, go from zero.” A rueful smile, a shrug. “I know it’s natural, that it’s been barely a few months. But still, I want to get better already, I want to be good. Good, just like I was when I was,” she inhaled, then let the word slid out, “dancing.”

Arya splayed her hands on her thighs. “And I’m trying, I’m really trying to not keep quiet about...things, like I did before, because that’s what we do, normally, isn’t it? You do it too. We don’t speak our minds when it matters.” Arya’s hands began trembling, fingers itching to tap, tap, tap against her knee.

Jon set his wider hand above hers, stilling their minute motions. Bad habit of his, their families, to keep everything bottled up and run away as an alternative. But Arya was trying, committing to change with everything she had.

Speak. Dislodge all the words stuck in his throat and throw them out. How would that feel? Words could hurt too. Jon squeezed Arya’s hands, considering that if sound and silence would make him bleed either way, he might as well hurt by ripping off the stitches across his lips. “I want to take you somewhere. Are you well enough for it?”

Arya hopped down from the bed, donned the top layers of her black uniform, then her heavy, fur-lined coat, and was ready in seconds. “Let’s go.”

Jon smiled and turned to the door, firing a terse text message before abandoning the infirmary.

It was dusk when they walked into the courtyard, not many rangers or trainees at this hour as most were having dinner. Jon moved swiftly, leading Arya to the Wall itself. An imposing barricade of ice around which Fort Castle Black, and the rest of its sister bases, had been built.

Pyp was waiting for them, slurping soup against the lift. He glanced up and greeted him. “Lord Snow, time for your nightly stroll?”  
  
Jon could hear Arya snicker quietly behind him. “You could say that, yeah.”

Pyp had an intrigued expression upon noticing Arya, eyes blinking through the steam spiralling from his bowl of soup. “You brought company. That’s new.”

Jon ignored the comment and stepped onto the platform, Arya on his heels. Jon pulled a lever and they ascended. Arya seemed to vibrate beside him. Trainees weren’t taken to the top until reaching 3rd class rank, thus gaining basic clearance. Trainees were to be focused on training and advancing to the next ranging level; if they failed, they were removed from the course.

In Arya’s case, no one needed to know. Pyp would not utter a thing, and even if he did, Jon supposed no one would really care.  
  
The lift stopped, and with the help of another lever, the doors dragged themselves to the left.

Jon welcomed the ice beneath his feet, willingly faced the sharp, northern winds. He heard a gasp by his right. Arya trod on over to the railing, with a face so astounded by the view. It began with the play of blues and purples and reds across the sky, colors blending together in the dying light. Then the twinkle of the ice after the sun hid, the kiss of the moon upon the treetops of the haunted forest, and lastly, the icelands of the uncharted beyond, stretching far and wide into the horizon.

A sight that bewitched one’s mind. At times, it induced a feeling of being small and insignificant, the world a undefeatable giant, nature an entity impossible to bend to anyone's will.

Arya took it all in, eyes silver bright, lips parted in awe. "I heard," she said in a hush, a finger pointed to where the Lands of Always Winter would be, "that nobody knows what's truly out there. It's too harsh a climate for anyone to survive there. The terrain rough and unforgiving."

"It is." Jon agreed. "Few have been the ranging parties that have gone there to never return. Mum was in the last party sent to that place."

Arya became troubled and made to speak, but Jon intervened. "It's ok. It's been years.”

Arya still was a bit apologetic, so Jon carried on. "Do you remember her?"

Truthfully, Arya answered. "Not so much, anymore."

"It's understandable. You were six when it happened, while I was eleven." His parents had already separated by then. So it was Uncle Ned who imparted the news that night. _She won't be coming back, Jon. I'm sorry._ "She'd retired but you never stop being a ranger. She volunteered when that recon mission was offered to her. It wasn’t supposed to take long.”

This time it was Arya twining her hand around his shaking fist, coaxing it into relaxing. She went to him and slid an arm around his waist. “You never told me any of this,” she said, voice soft.

There hadn’t been much of an occasion to do so. His father whisked him away to the south almost immediately, where he stayed until he was eighteen and a final choice was needed: knight or ranger. He could have called or texted, Jon mused, but being in a strange new home inhabited by strange new people served to close him off.

“I always miss her. But it’s been bad lately.” He returned the embrace, made it as tight as he could. “She visits me in dreams.”

She burrowed herself into his chest, her hands ran up and down his back, her breath fell against his neck.

After a while, he said, low and contemplative, “It’s awful late, but I’m telling you now.”

Jon felt the press of lips on his cheek.

She was warm.

Addictively warm.

####  **2.1**

“She’ll be fine,” Sam said, patting him on the back. He stood beside him, watching Arya leave with a party led by Brienne. In order to become 3rd class rangers, all trainees had to go through their first ranging mission at the end of their first year. It was an exhausting survival mission in the depths of the haunted forest for about a fortnight.

“If anyone will pass, it’ll be Arya.” Sam smiled with conviction.

“I know.” But Jon couldn’t prevent worry from creeping back in. If anything happened to her out there―he wouldn’t know what to do. There were all sorts of dangers in the forest, wights being chief among them, even if actual sightings were rare since they appeared more often further north.

Arya had met him with a grin, earlier in the day, excitement in every gesture. She was curious, mystified by the rumors and legends and the extraordinary that could be encountered if you were unlucky. It was a common look on trainees, he probably sported it once, but on Arya it took on a different flavor. As if there could be a chance of her, becoming entrapped by the endless wild outside.

“If Ghost’d been around I’d made him go with her.” Jon followed her back, clad only in black nowadays, as her party began to traverse the tunnel connecting Castle Black to beyond the Wall, along with her companions, her new brothers and sisters. “I bet Arya would’ve hated that.”

“From what I’ve seen? I’d think so too,” Sam agreed, then asked, “Do you still...sense him?” Bonds with familiars could be powerful. Not every ranger had one, but the ones who did usually bonded with crows. To lose your bond would be like losing a part of yourself.

“I do. He’s out there and he’s fine,” Jon replied with certainty, but not without a pang of sadness.

“You never said why you let him go.” Sam stared at him with scholar interest. “I didn’t want to ask and be, you know, insensitive; then I was going to but you left for Winterfell and there wasn’t time,” Sam rambled, getting a bit of red in the face by having done so.

Jon chuckled. “It’s a bit complicated to explain.” He crossed his arms and paused to ponder a suitable answer. Sam was silent and patient. “Ghost wanted to be let go. You just know. He was restless, sort of like when you―,” he concentrated on the feeling, grasped for it, “look for something. He’ll be back when he finds it.”

Jon focused on Arya again. _She’ll return._ She wouldn’t get lost in the woods. Brienne would guide and protect her. Arya turned her head slightly, ponytail swishing to the right, she sent him a bright, private look over her shoulder.

He found implied reassurance in a nod and a hint of a smile.

_She’ll return._

To me.

####  **2.2**

He lingered in front of the mirror, saw himself swathed in black. Nothing was out of order and yet he lingered, his reflected face morphing into that of his mother’s, looking as she once had been, alive and youthful in the same black he wore. Her benign countenance twisted, eyes burning through a spillage of tears. _You won’t take him away,_ she screamed, _he’s not you._

 _He isn’t obligated to do the things you couldn’t do,_ behind her the shadow of his father swelled, _you want to keep him to yourself,_ swelled until it towered over their heads; black tendrils slithered forward, binding the three of them together.

_Son._

_Son._ His father's soft tenor scattered frost over his hair, shoulders, and arms. _She has abandoned you. Now I’m all that is left, all that you’ll need._ The glint of steel was pointed towards his heart, edge unblunted, a continuous warning hovering over his life; duty-bound to bow and acquiesce. _Do, child, as I tell you to._

Jon raised his hands, small and smooth like a boy's. _Son,_ they commanded at once, _come with me._ His wrists were pulled in opposite directions. _Come with me._

_Come with_

Insistent rapping startled Jon into wakefulness. He shuddered, unmindful of his surroundings, his head heavy and cloudy. Jon straightened his back, rubbed his eyes, waited, and only after restoring some of his composure, he barked, "Come in."

Val poked her head in. "You busy? I wanted to talk―," she scrunched her brow in concern, "are you okay? You look like death warmed over."

Jon avoided her gaze. "I haven't been sleeping very well, lately. You know how it is."

Val wasn't convinced, but somehow let it drop. It must be important, then. "I think...we need coffee. I’ll be right back."

Hopefully, the aftertaste of his dream would dissipate by then.

Val reappeared in his office with two cups of coffee. She handed his to him and closed the door before taking a seat. “I’ve been asking around and nothing too conclusive yet. But let me ask you first, you have Sam looking into it too, aren’t you?”

It was an obvious supposition, and there wasn’t any reason to deny it.

“You two have different ways of obtaining information.” Sam was second in charge of the records division. Val was familiar with nearly all of the sister bases. She always knew the right person to ask, or the right place to go. “I told you, I simply want to know what happened.” He was Commander now, had gained sufficient authority and loyalty from his peers to find the truth through more discreet avenues.

Val blew on her coffee, crossing her legs. She aimed a meaningful glance towards him. “Lyanna Stark hasn’t been the first disappearance in your family.”

“Uncle Benjen.” Jon was aware of Benjen Stark, but he was barely a distant memory. Quick mentions of him when Jon was a kid in Winterfell, often in family anecdotes from Old Nan. Neither he nor Arya met him. He hadn’t thought about him in a long time. “His disappearance has to do with my mother’s?”

But he had considered the possibility, while listening to the rumors fellow trainees shared around a fire, in the dead of night, with wide eyes and hushed-up voices, about the Commanders and their parties who got lost attempting to range in the Lands of Always Winter, where not even one human technological invention could last.

“I heard something interesting in the communications division at Shadow Tower.”

On his desk, his phone lit up with an incoming text. It was from Satin. Jon said to Val with urgency, “this will have to wait. Come with me,” and was out of his office in a blink, going through hallways and down stairs at a brisk pace.

“Jon,” Val called. “What’s the matter?”

“You’ll see!”

He jogged across the courtyard, and there she was, Arya with her party, safe and sound as far as he could see. He spied a flash of white pelt and froze. Satin’s eyes weren’t really deceiving him, then. The great direwolf bounded towards him, closed his jaws around his forearm, and a booming laugh bubbled up. He let Ghost play, then took his arm away to ruffle Ghost’s fur around his sides. “You’re back!” Jon scratched behind an ear, to Ghost’s delight.

Jon noticed something poking his back and turned. It was another muzzle. From another direwolf. Gold eyes gazed back at him, head tilted to the left.

“Nymeria!” Arya shouted, a bit out of breath as she ran to them.

“Incredible, how rare is that,” Val muttered, echoing his own thoughts.

Arya bonded with a direwolf, just like he had.

Jon went to her, his joy at simply seeing her again moved him, his palm alighting on her right cheek so gently as though it was porcelain. "I'm glad,” he said, unable to restrain the tender emotion from exposing itself, “that you're back here."

Arya beamed, savoring the afterglow of her success. Pinned to her right shoulder, a new 3rd class ranger insignia: a silver star above a raven taking flight.

####  **2.3**

It was an agreement, to have another meeting at the top of the Wall a day after Arya’s successful return. And Arya helped to smuggle two flasks of hot chocolate, Jon carried two bags of chips and biscuits, and Nymeria and Ghost provided much needed calefaction. 

They sat on narrow benches scattered along the Wall’s edge. Between sips of chocolate, without any preface at all, Arya jumped to tell him about a club called Meereen and its fighting pits, about the liquor and the occasional pill to keep herself alert. “Took all the right decisions to make me feel a little less like myself.”

“I made money fighting and I’d burn it as soon as I had it.” She nibbled on a cookie, her mind recalling her life before the Wall, before knocking on Jon’s door. “I resented everything, especially myself, mostly myself. You waited for me, though.”

Arya leaned on his arm, her head on his shoulder. “Finding you made me want to go back to who I was.”

Jon wrapped an arm around her, tucked her into his side. Nymeria and Ghost remained by their feet, peering up at them. He asked, tentatively, “Do you want to talk about Braavos?”

Arya released a deep sigh and hurled herself into an explanation, to prevent self-judgment from robbing her of her voice. “There was a girl in my class, just as good. We hurt each other bad. At some point, our competitiveness got out of hand. But I was given the lead part in the end and she was so furious. That girl came to my room, at night, with a knife.”

Here, Arya’s self-reproachment punched its way through. “She woke me up, tried to scare me into rejecting the part, I said I would. I lied, obviously, and instead of reporting her the next day like I should have, I picked up a staff, a dance prop, and goaded her into a fight. I broke her nose, ribs, and her left knee. She broke a wrist, twisted my right ankle, and scarred my calves with her nails. We both ended up irrevocably expelled.”

Jon rarely swore, but the words slipped past in a rush. “Fucking hell.” Anger had surged up throughout Arya’s story. “Who the hell was she?”

“No one,” was the abrupt response. The absoluteness of Arya’s tone startled him out of his angry haze.

“Sorry,” she said, noticing his reaction. “It’s just―I don’t even want to mention her name. To me, she doesn’t exist. She’s like―part of a nightmare. A mistake. That’s all she’ll be from now on. Does it make sense?”

“It does, Arya. It damn well does.” Jon didn’t know what else to do, other than to be right next to her.

“I liked it, you know,” Arya said, after an hour of silence. “Out there. It’s a bit like being on your own, but you’re not lonely. The sounds of the forest are with you even at night. You learn where to go, what to eat, how to eat it. You get used to the different smells and to tell the time by the sun. You lie down, appreciate the ground under you, admire the stars above you.” Sorrow trailed along the periphery of her account, not forgotten just merely cast aside for the moment, however, the infusion of pure wonder succeeded in carrying her to a farther, better place.

“I kept having weird dreams. Running through the night, howling, having sharp teeth and strong legs.” Arya looked up at him. “Then Nymeria and Ghost found me one night. Everyone was sleeping. I wasn’t afraid, I thought I was dreaming. Nymeria came close, I touched her and felt….”

“Complete?” It had been like that for him, during his first mission. He found Ghost at the foot of a weirwood. He gazed at him with his red eyes, his steps devoid of sound as he approached, smelled him, and soon after, accepted him.

“Yeah, that’s it. _Complete_.”

Jon wondered if the word could also apply to the two of them. His eyes abruptly shifted away from Arya, blurting, “I think I’m in trouble.”

“Why’s that?”

Jon peered into his empty flask. “I received a summons from Lord Commander Mormont.”

“Jon?” Concern lined her face, drew her body nearer to him. She sent him a plea for an explanation with one look.

“I’ve been looking into my mother’s disappearance.” He ran a hand down his face, rubbing his fingers across a stubbled chin. More truth out into the open. “Information on her last mission is scarce, and what’s actually recorded is encrypted. Sam’s been trying to bypass that without leaving trace. Friends have been helping me all along.”

“Val told me something she found out.” Jon felt himself leaning on her. “In Shadow Tower, a voice message was picked up from my mother, in it she said, ‘please let us be the last.’” Jon smiled mirthlessly. Inside, something was fracturing. “She didn’t ask for help, request backup, nothing. I don’t know what to think.”

Arya touched his jaw, made him look at her. “It seems to me she might’ve wanted to protect those who would’ve come after her, and her party, from whatever it was they discovered.”

Jon lowered his head and smiled again; it started to hurt a bit less. “Protect those like me?”

“Like us.” At that statement, Jon rose his gaze and was met with her resoluteness. “If you go, I’ll go after you.”

The distance between them, though minimal, had become unbearable.

####  **3.1**

Morning arrived as it always did, unavoidably, and Jon marched across the corridors, Ghost at his heels, taking the stairs instead of the lift as he headed to the office of the Lord Commander. Jon would be expected of course, and this was evidenced by the half-open door that was usually closed. Jon instructed Ghost to stay, then he breathed in, announced himself, and was bid to enter.

“Sir,” Jon saluted.

Mormont gestured to one of the chairs. “Take a seat.”

Jon did, and went through the most disquieting part: the pregnant pause before a conversation of import. Mormont showed visible exhaustion dragging down his posture, as though sleep had been a luxury. His superior considered him, quietly. Natural shadows sectioned his broad figure, heightened the wear carved by time on his face. The deep furrow between his brows gave an impression of wariness.

Mormont stroked his ample white beard, deliberately, mind verging on contemplation. But at long last, he spoke, “We’re rangers. Ranging is our purpose. We go out into the wild to explore the world beyond of what is known. And yet, we haven’t been able to know what’s out there, not entirely. Human resourcefulness, even when aided by technology, has failed every time.”

The Lord Commander released a sigh. Jon heard the weight of his years in the brittleness of the sound. “I’ve become aware that you’re looking for answers.”

Jon forced himself to remain still, but he knew his right hand betrayed him by twitching. Mormont looked at him steadily. It was useless to pretend otherwise. “How?”

“The information you want is classified.” Mormont interlaced his fingers. “Your rangers are very good, but not enough to obtain files or mission particulars only I am privy to, I’m afraid. Mistakes happen.”  
  
“Bowen Marsh,” Jon guessed. Ears and eyes everywhere, nothing could stay secret for long. “Perhaps Mallister.”

“Yes, and Mallister at Shadow Tower.” Mormont nodded. “You’ve always been sharp. But you rushed to the finish line, leaving yourself open.”

Jon hung his head, body rigid, clutching the arm rests to contain his temper, but soon he realized something that righted him. “Whatever the sanction to be had, please, sir, let me be the only one responsible.”

A flicker of surprise crossed those old eyes. Mormont shook his head, as if in disbelief. “Sometimes I see you, as you were, a true unruly lad but caring for his fellow trainees. No talk of sanctions is necessary. I’ll give you what you want.”

Jon was taken aback. “Sir?”

“I should’ve done this sooner,” Mormont said, “it is, after all, something she asked before parting. She did leave on a day like today.”

Jon relaxed his shoulders, emptied his mind, affected impassivity. It wouldn’t work on Mormont, but maybe he could trick himself into thinking he could gain control over his reactions.  
  
“As I said earlier, our purpose is to explore. And to protect. But how can we do so, if we’re ignorant of what exists past our centuries-old boundaries?” Mormont inclined deeper into his chair, his age setting in now more than it ever had. “So it’s natural, to nurture a desire to know what is there where we cannot tread.”

“The Lands of Always Winter?”

“We’ve sent a number of parties near the Lands throughout the Night’s Watch history, only to have them disappear.” A low croak and Jon heard the batting of wings. He noticed that Mormont’s raven had been uncharacteristically quiet until this moment. The bird flew, landing on the old man’s shoulder.

“Benjen Stark was the first ranger who disappeared under my watch. He led a one man recon mission to the Frostfangs, he wasn’t supposed to go farther. Six months in and we lost contact, so we did the best we could think of to possibly retrieve him.”

Jon intoned, “You contacted my mother.”

“I notified her of what had occurred.” Mormont glanced down. Timeworn regret abraded him. “I proposed the mission and she volunteered. I thought she’d find him. I had to try before giving him up to the winterlands. Along with Benjen, she was one of the best and―they were siblings. We _had_ to try.”

Something was fracturing, searing, collapsing as Jon had the blade of the past bury itself deep into his chest. “And she’s gone.” _Gone._ Together with her laugh, her kindness, her stories, her favorite songs, all of what she was and could have been subsumed into fallible boyish memory.

A drawer was opened, and from it, an insignia was procured. “This was meant for her, after her return.”

Jon zeroed in on what was offered. It became difficult to swallow, to breathe, to see. “You believed in her.”

“I believe Commander Stark is _out there_ , with her brother, protecting us all from what dwells in the depths of Winter,” Mormont confided, depositing his mother’s insignia in his hand. _You never stop being a ranger_.

Enclosed in his fist was a shield, impressed with four silver stars around a midnight raven taking flight.

####  **3.2**

In the safety of his quarters, he regressed to the crypts of Winterfell Castle. Once more, Jon mourned before an empty tomb, laid a wreath of winter roses at her stone feet. The splash of blue was lovely on her. It was her color. He stepped back, glimpsed the stone frame of Benjen Stark and it didn’t cross his mind to question it.

He restrained himself from asking questions. It was his fault. He had yelled at her to not come back and that was what she did. She had promised she’d stay. She promised. But there was no time for explanations and she left, disappeared altogether from existence. Only a petrified image of her remained, surrounded by flowers and candles and strangers in monochrome feeling sorry for him.

A tiny hand slipped into his. Big, wide gray eyes stared, maybe uncomprehending the situation but solemn nonetheless, and sad, simply because he was sad. Openly sad and covertly angry at the smudge that was everything else whirling about him.

Arya stood out, though. She stuck to him until she was made to unstick around dinnertime. He barely ate. His mother was gone and this ‘today’ transitioned into the next, as if nothing of note ever happened. He didn’t sleep. And the world didn’t end. It kept breathing, booming, reminding him it was there by sending light through his window. His heart pumped blood and he was alive. So his father awaited him outside and that meant goodbye.

A pendant in Arya’s paint-stained hands. A desperate, “Take care of this for me, would you?” It had been stashed in his mother’s jewelry box, forgotten, something that had always been suspended from her neck.

Arya sniffled. “I will.”

Uncle Ned looked on, powerless. Openly sad and covertly angry in a way that resembled his. Dad. It was on the tip of his tongue, but was swallowed and thrown back into the wishing well. Aunt Catelyn and the rest of his cousins, Robb, Bran, baby Rickon and Sansa. All of them, his family.

Goodbye.

To his mother, and their home.

Jon clutched the insignia tighter.

Ghost howled quietly.

Jon sat up in his bed, restless energy causing him to seize his phone, shoot a text, and the response came as he shut the door to his room. Ghost loped alongside him as he ignored the lift in favor of the stairs, taking two or three steps at a time as he descended to the first level. He strode across the training yard and the courtyard, not stopping until he arrived to the Wall’s gate.

Arya and Nymeria were already there; she had patrolling duty. She also had saddled a second horse, as per his request.

She only had one look at him, and asked, “What’s wrong? You said it was urgent.”

“I’ll tell you on the way.” Jon heard the urgency overwhelming his voice. He lacked the motivation to even pretend he was fine. “You have someone to cover for you?”

“Yes, I have, it’s no problem. I took care of that.” Arya searched him with her eyes for a clue, lingering for a moment on his left shoulder. She frowned. “This came out of the blue. Where are we going?”

“Outside.” Jon mounted his horse, took the reins.

"Outside?" Arya rooted herself to the ground, seeming uneasy. She pressed, "Where is outside exactly? Is this a mission?" 

"Of sorts. To the nearest weirwood grove in the forest," Jon revealed, calling for the sentries to open the gate.

“Jon.” She was reluctant to move. Jon understood. If he felt more than capable of a harebrained act, he probably looked it too.

“Please.” Jon didn’t want to do this alone. Right now, he was afraid of getting lost, but he needed to go out, needed to do this one little thing especially while it was daylight. Arya had to be there, with him, just like she had been the first time.

Though, Arya was dubious, she settled on her horse and followed. Her eyes locked on him.

####  **3.3**

They rode into the world beyond the Wall. Jon squinted up at the clear sky, thinking himself lucky. It was a proper sunny day, the sunniest day in months and behind him, beneath the pale rays of sunlight, the Wall wept.

The landscape soon changed as Jon crossed the treeline, penetrating into the haunted forest at a canter, spraying snow as they went, Arya unfailingly beside him. At last, he spied his destination and slowed their pace. His pulse didn’t, however, it continued racing ahead of him. His mind was in disarray, tottering between past and present. His hands were small and big, smooth and callused.

Jon dismounted. Arya did the same. Before them, nine weirwoods stood in a circle, sunlight streaming through slender branches, setting aflame crowns of red leaves. He walked forwards to the center. Now that his objective was completed, the restless energy powering him up ran out. His limbs quaked until his bones gave out; knees hitting the snow as hands came up to brace him. His yesterday bled into his today, and Jon realized too late he was hemmed in by the wreckage time had bore within him.

“Jon!” Arya sat by his side, rested a hand on his back. She was brimming with worry.

Truth _, Truth, out with you._ Jon contemplated the wooden, white faces. Go, _go into the heart of the matter_. "My father was always expecting the very best from me. He set a standard of perfection I tried hard to reach. There were people like Lannister or Tyrell who excelled at everything. But I ignored that and kept training nonstop so I could have his approval. Training every day so I could give him what he wanted but I never could, not really, because how can you give something you don't have. I'm not a knight. It never felt right."

Jon’s lips were a thin line, frustration and bitterness peeking through his features. “So I escaped to this place when I was old enough. I came here for me and―for my mother. To find her. Not knowing for certain where she was not letting me go.” Jon unpinned his mother’s insignia from his left shoulder, caressed the silver stars and the midnight raven with gloved hands. He got to his feet with effort, plodding to the centermost weirwood. “You see, I’ve got to say goodbye, properly this time.”

Jon kneeled slowly, next to an ancient, protruding root. He began burrowing into the snow under the root. He dug, dug, and dug with newfound vigorous determination. Jon grasped the insignia with trembling hands and laid it down, with extreme care. “I'm sorry I can't come to you,” he panted, exhausted, his eyes hot and tearing, “I’m sorry I yelled at you, I’m sorry I told you to not come back. I hated you had to leave me. I’m so sorry we fought.”

Jon dragged the snow back, pushed it into the burrow he made. “Thank you for telling me your stories, for singing your songs, for letting me be with you when you were sad. You stayed as long as you could. I know you had to go. I understand. I do. I’m here now. I’ve seen what you wished for me to see.” Little by little, the insignia became blanketed by layers of snow, deeply buried underneath the root of an ancient, sacred tree.

“I love you.” And much more roughly, almost inaudibly, he whispered, “rest in peace.” His fingers finished smoothing out the snow. He wiped the corner of his eyes with the heel of a hand.

Another, smaller hand upon his. Jon looked at Arya’s reddened, wet face that must mirror his own. She sighed his name, displaying naked fear. “Just tell me something. Truthfully. Please.”

“All right.”

“Are you ever going to go _out there_?” She didn’t conceal how the question pained her.

He had considered it many, many times. “No. Not anymore.” Honest and resolute. Just like she was.

“Even if it means never knowing what’s in that place?”

“I think we’re not meant to know. It’s enough that I know mum’s there and why.”

Arya breathed out. Relieved.

“But more importantly, you’re alive.” Jon enfolded her with his arms, pressed her firmly against him. He kissed the top of her head, twined a hand around her neck, and said softly into her hair, “And I found I’d rather stay alive with you.”


End file.
